an aid to laundry troubles

[unsheathedfromreality]

[At some handwave-y time shortly after the closing of the Story, a note in an workmanlike cursive hand goes up on the bulletin board:]

If you need a change of clothing, I can make simple tunics and trousers that won't disappear.

Find me:

[A simple doodle of Illarion's face follows: Pointy ears, long hair, blindfold (or veil), malar stripes. Enough to go on when most of the Library is human.

It is signed below the doodle with an eye-and-feather symbol. No name.]

IC UPDATE:

[A few hours after the initial post goes up, an additional sheet of paper is appended to it:]

Payment is not necessary but if you're one of those who can make or find permanent items, you can bring one of the following:

- Fabric
- Thread or gut
- Head/round knife
- Awl
- Leathering needle
- Raising hammer
- Pliers
- Portable anvil
- Hides or leather

NO glitter. We have plenty.

Comments

[unsheathedfromreality]

[It's a real pity that Illarion can't experience this as hilarious the way he would have while he was alive.

But he would have found it very funny, and that's enough.

A small note is appended below the poem:]

This also works.

Spare the bedsheets for the neediest.

[steelfeathered]

[why did I make her a poet who's had centuries to practice and can extemporize.]

Just as well. Bedsheets' bane, I shred sheets, they rend at my name.

[well, she'd put holes in them anyway. Hisako's probably finding perches to sleep on.]

[unsheathedfromreality]

[He's going to try something here, a little experiment with the medium:]

Beware those in linens arraigned, the dread spell:

______________________________

(speak not this name)

[Rhyme at him long enough and there's an instinct that will kick him into rhyming back.]

[steelfeathered]

[Hisako considers the new addition for a while. Surely she can do better than just putting her name there!

She writes part of a character in the underlined portion, and then dramatically skids the brush hard against the paper and clear off it, onto the board itself, as if held in the hand of someone who was attacked! Then some judicious ink spattering, and she balances on one leg for long enough to catch at the lower edge of the page with two claws.

At that point she switches to shorter, choppier symbols, written with a graphite stick.]

IT WILL NOT BE SPOKEN
IT WILL NOT BE KNOWN
THE SEEDS LIE DORMANT
EXACTLY WHERE THEY WERE SOWN

[unsheathedfromreality]

[Oh no.

He is fairly certain -- fairly -- there was nothing malevolent running lose in the Library, eating Editors, but one could never be wholly sure.]

Farewell, Bane-of-Sheets. We have brought this on ourselves, [he eulogizes, beneath the the "warning". If text can be deadpan, this certainly is.]